Broken
by niennavalier
Summary: "The Gods have returned to Asgard, but Odin was unable to fulfill his last wish. Michele is dead, and all Anders has left is a bottle of vodka. He feels like he lost more than one part of himself today, and he'd rather not think about why." Anders character study, post-series.


**A/N: The prompt (basically just the summary part in the quotes) came from deanohell over on tumblr and AO3. I've been in this fandom for a bit, but this is my first fic for it. Hope I did it justice.**

 **One other note: the rating is for language and some sexual references, though nothing is explicit, really, and I don't write smut anyway.**

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Anders didn't know what the fuck he'd expected. Every single person who'd maybe meant anything to him had gone and shot through; Mum had decided life was better as a fucking tree, and Dad preferred the ocean to actually raising his kids. And his brother hated him more often than not. So he shouldn't have been surprised to know that the gods didn't give half a fuck about them either.

Honestly, he'd thought their little casino night had been enough to come to terms with the fact that Michele was, for all intents and purposes, dead. They'd gotten their good screw in, a really good screw – she knew her way around, he couldn't deny – and it'd been really fucking fun. He'd pissed off Mike with that too, which he had to admit felt a little good, although, really, it was his big bro's fault for pissing Michele off in the first place. Stupid, dick move. Ultimately, though, they'd made pretty good use of their last twenty-four hours as gods.

Anders had figured that, whatever happened, he'd come out of it okay. He'd always had to take care of himself, anyway. And besides, what would the difference be this time – not like there was any way to disappoint him more than he already had been, what with not actually becoming gods.

But then Mr. Allfather himself just had to go all hero and make that stupid-ass promise about bringing Michele back to life, and he realized just how wrong he'd been. Because, right there, he felt something. Something stronger than all the hard-ons he'd had for all those beautiful women over the years. Hope. That's what it was. Hope that, maybe, just once, he wouldn't have to deal with all the people he cared about leaving him again and again. That, this time, he'd come out of whatever shit with someone who wasn't about to just up and bolt at the next opportunity. That, for once, someone or something might keep their promise to help him. Anyways, didn't the gods owe them all something? He'd basically died, for fuck's sake! That should've counted for something!

But then the whole white light business happened, and he'd been the first to see Michele fall, before Stacey and Ingrid had even noticed. He'd kept watching as they went to their friend's side, standing stock still himself and unable to slow his heart because _holy shit I can't see her breathing fuck no._ It was when the women began shaking her shoulders and calling her name to no avail that he'd actually turned away from the whole sight, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. Not that anyone bothered to notice his reaction. When had they ever really cared anyway?

Always blaming everything on him whenever the hell they could, and he'd take it, because anything else and pretty soon it'd turn into a physical fight, one they all knew he'd never win. Anytime they weren't placing blame was because he'd done something right _for once_. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how fucking hard, it wasn't gonna make a difference. They'd only kept him around for the Frigg-hunt, for Bragi, he knew. And he'd stuck around, he'd taken all of their abuse, but for what? With all that over, what'd he have left? His firm was in shambles, no doubt (as Colin had so _kindly_ pointed out). Dawn maybe, sort of remembered him. His family would be off their own ways again, ready to relinquish any and all ties to him. Michele was dead.

And now all Anders has left is a bottle of vodka.

It's hanging in his hand as he sits on the couch in the darkened flat he may or may not get kicked out of by morning because nobody has a fucking clue who he is anymore. Every now and then, he takes a swig, relishing the burn as it trails down his throat, because it keeps everything at bay just that much longer.

Because, of everything, somehow, out of all the shit which had gone down, it's last part that really hurts the most. About Michele being gone.

Really, whatever Mike thought, their one good fuck wasn't just about pissing him off, honest.

There'd been…something…when they'd first me, back when everything was just starting to go to shit. It wasn't love; he wasn't some fucking teenager. Yeah, she was beautiful, and smart, and maybe he'd kinda wanted to get inside her right then and there, but it definitely wasn't love. Honestly, he'd never really been a fan of love at all; Ty was the romantic – let him have all the sappy romance and destiny crap. Anders wasn't so optimistic; growing up with a shit family who didn't care tended to do that to a person.

So, it wasn't love. But it was like they were a match for each other. Like they were each other's only equal in the world, so yeah, there was definitely something in that. And, somehow, that'd made him feel…whole, almost. Shit, he was starting to sound like Ty with his epic courtship of Dawn, but he wasn't lying. He wasn't gonna admit it to anyone – he barely liked admitting it to himself – but it'd always felt like something was missing from his life, probably thanks to his deadbeat family. When Bragi'd come along, it'd finally given him a chance to change and fill the empty parts of his fucked-up life, and, god, the power rush had felt so good, letting him screw destiny and screw girls – all the wish fulfillment he could've ever asked for, temporarily completing him.

But then he'd met Michele, and it was like the need to fill the rest of that hole was just gone. Like he could actually be content forever, for once.

It'd felt all kinds of wrong, at first. Then, he'd gotten used to it. Even when she was with Mike, he wasn't particularly jealous at all, because he was sure they both knew there would always be that something-that-wasn't-love between them, and just having each other there would be enough.

And then when they'd got their fuck, well, he'd figured that was what _whole_ really did feel like. Yeah, maybe he'd lied when he'd told Mike he'd just been used by her, but it wasn't like he was gonna admit just how fucking good it felt when everything was just right.

But now? Now, he just feels broken, more empty than he ever had since before he'd turned twenty-one.

Anders takes another long swig, just waiting for the damn alcohol to do its job already. Because he feels like he lost more than one part of himself today, and he'd rather not think about why.


End file.
